


Dreaming Cities

by justinlovesart



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justinlovesart/pseuds/justinlovesart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the cancer arc, but in a slightly alternative universe where Brian and Justin never reunited after Justin's break-up with Ethan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming Cities

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Scretsolitaire for the beta.

“Tell me about New York.”

It was a comforting sound, coming from a distance, or in a whisper. Brian knew that he was dreaming, and yet, for a moment, he thought he could smell a familiar breath in those words.

Justin didn’t visit him often in dreams, but when he did he rarely spoke, and never with such clarity. He would be laughing or staring intently from under a blue light, visible in parts rather than in full: an eye covered by blond bangs; a pale hand that moved quickly over a gleaming screen; the nape of his neck, a naked shoulder.

With those images, Brian would hear the echo of labored breathing, a tennis shoe dropping on the floor, water hitting the plexiglass of a shower stall. The rustle of sheets, sometimes, but never a fully-formed sentence that sounded like a request.

He considered opening his eyes to remind himself that he was alone in the loft’s bedroom. Or perhaps call out to Michael, who was still moving around in the kitchen. But his eyelids were heavy and the idea of looking into the late morning light filled him with the same sick dread he felt whenever he was about to puke. He’d had enough of that for today.

He let himself sink deeper into the mattress and hoped for everything to fade to black.

***

When he woke up, he knew before opening his eyes that the light coming from the windows wouldn’t be harsh.

He lay till for a while, eyelids sticky with too many hours of sleep, trying to gauge whether or not he could sit up, and how much strength he’d need for that: one of the first cancer lessons had been to pick his battles carefully.

No sound was coming from the living room, but Brian knew instinctively that he wasn’t alone.

“Mikey?” His voice was hoarser than expected and his mouth tasted dry and bitter. He reached to the bedside for a glass which, he noticed, had been freshly refilled.

“No, it’s me.”

Brian wasn’t at all surprised when he heard the soft patter of shoeless feet and saw Justin’s silhouette against the bedroom door. He drank his cool water in small sips, breathing between swallows.

“Michael had to leave and asked me to come over for a while.”

He couldn’t really see Justin’s face, because the late afternoon light was behind him, casting a dark shadow over colors and details. He wished that Justin would step forward, that he could ask him to do so.

“Thanks for the water,” he said instead, drinking the last few drops.

Justin recognized his cue (Brian was grateful for that) and walked to the bedside. “Do you want more?” He took the glass, but did not sit on the bed. He just stood there, waiting for Brian’s reply.

“No. I need to piss.”

Justin took a small step back, allowing him to get out of bed, but he remained close. Brian felt his gaze following him as he went to the bathroom and that was enough to make him walk a little steadier. He left the door slightly ajar and bit his lip while holding his dick, his other arm stretched to the bathroom wall. Only after he’d flushed the toilet, did he hear Justin leave the bedroom.

***

He washed as best as he could, wishing he could take a shower, and changed into a clean t-shirt and his oldest and softest pair of jeans, the worn-out ones he’d never think of taking with him to New York. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, glad that he’d splurged on a 300-dollar haircut before the surgery: not even a morning at the clinic and hours pressed against sweaty pillows could make his hair look less than styled.

Padding silently, he made his way into the living room, stopping at the edge of the couch to look at Justin’s back as he moved busily around the kitchen area.

It wasn’t a new sight, but it looked different from the way he remembered it, the nervous confidence of the old Justin replaced by movements both more deliberate and more hesitant.

“Have you moved the bowls?” Justin asked, opening and closing a few cupboards.

“There should still be a couple in the usual place,” Brian replied, and could not help feeling a twinge of disappointment that Justin had already forgotten where that was. “Right under the sink.”

“Ah, yes, the old ones!” Justin grabbed one, then turned around to show his finding. He was smiling. “The designer bowls must be already in New York.” He looked at Brian as he said that, and it wasn’t really a question, although it sounded like one.

Brian started to walk towards the counter. “Yeah, well, I haven’t finished moving yet. I’ll have some of this stuff,” he waved vaguely at what was left of the loft’s furniture, “sent later.”

Justin nodded and carefully checked the bowl in his hand. “I used to eat my cereal in this.” He opened a drawer and took out a spoon. Then, he lifted the lid off the small pot that had been bubbling slowly over the range, letting out a waft of homemade chicken soup.

Brian recognized the red pot, but the smell of the soup would have been enough to tell him it was homemade, because he’d eaten it many times before, at Debbie’s, in the old days of flu and missed school with Michael.

Justin looked at him and scrunched up his nose. “You won’t be difficult, will you? I promised Deb I’d make you eat at least one bowl of this.” The lid in one hand and the spoon pointed at him in the other, he waited for Brian to nod before he started to pour out the thick, golden liquid.

“You should eat some, too, ” Brian said as he seated himself at the counter. “Unless you’ve got other plans for dinner,” he added, almost wishing he hadn’t but too tired to really mind. Suddenly, he realized he was hungry.

It didn’t take long for Justin to bend down and grab the second bowl Brian hadn’t seen fit to take with him to New York, followed by a mismatched spoon from the drawer.

“Plans can be rearranged.”

***

Justin’s hair was longer than Brian had ever seen it (even longer than it had been in the Ian days) and he kept flicking it back with a small movement of his head.

They ate in silence, Justin careful not to finish his soup too quickly, although he was obviously relishing it. “There’s more in the freezer,” he told Brian. “Deb has made enough for an army and is forcing every queer on Liberty Avenue to eat it.”

After they finished, he collected the dirty spoons and bowls, checking that Brian had really eaten all of his portion. “She also gave me some to take to home to Daphne.”

They’d been sitting at the counter, its high stools among the few pieces still left in the loft.

“Does Daphne cut your hair?” Brian asked, stretching his arm to touch a rebellious bang, then letting it go.

Justin laughed, looking away. “Not really. As a matter of fact, she saved me from shaving my head this summer.” He soaked the dishes in the sink.

Brian raised an eyebrow, but Justin chose not answer the implied question. “You were already gone,” he said, as if that was enough of an explanation.

Yes, he’d been gone by then.

How many dramas had he missed that had to do with hair and school and other trivial events in the lives of Justin Taylor and Daphne Chanders, in the wake of the small trail of scorched earth he’d left behind following Stockwell’s election? The price of Brian’s personal triumph and his fully-paid ticket to New York City.

He stepped off the stool and felt immediately unsteady on his feet. Glancing around the loft he realized how empty it was, with only the couch left, the small coffee table and a few cushions scattered around the floor.

“I bet the first thing you sent off was the Barcelona chair,” Justin guessed, and he was right. It didn’t look out of place in the Manhattan apartment, unfinished as it still seemed.

Brian leaned against the counter and Justin came immediately to his side. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Brian snapped, stepping away and not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Justin walked to the couch, where, Brian noticed for the first time, he’d spread a few of his drawing pads and pencils. “I’ll make some room,” he said, removing his things.

Brian sat with relief, lying down across the length and resting his head against one of the arm rests. “Are you drawing by hand now?” he asked, closing his eyes, and wondering what other major changes he’d missed.

“More often than I used to,” Justin replied, setting his work on the coffee table. “But I’d never really stopped.”

Of course. There had been the comic book sketches. Then the Ethan ones. It occurred to Brian that the last hand-drawn sketch of Justin’s he’d seen was the one of Rage and JT, the one Justin had left behind the day he’d gone. Brian had scrunched it up into a ball and thrown it away.

***

“Do you want to sleep now, Brian?”

When was the last time he’d heard Justin say his name?

“No,” he replied, “but don’t play loud music and start dancing around like an under-age twink.”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted. Your music player is gone.” Justin sat among the cushions on the floor. “It’s like when I left the door unlocked and you were robbed.” For some reason, this seemed to amuse him. He opened his largest sketchpad and picked up a pencil. “Only, this time you’re the one who’s gone to New York.”

Brian looked at him for a while, thinking of all the questions he could have asked and whether he really wanted to know the answers. He also wondered when Justin had become so difficult to decipher, so unwilling to volunteer new information. No doubt it had to do with him, with them, what whatever they had been.

He settled for listening to the sound of graphite on paper, trying to guess the outline of what Justin was working on. That might have been a safe question, he considered, but before he could ask anything, Brian heard the unmistakable buzz of a vibrating phone.

Justin stopped his drawing mid-stroke, his hand poised just above the paper as if unwilling to let it go. Eventually, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket (yet another unfamiliar addition to Justin’s life), checked the message, and put it back without changing his expression. Then, he resumed his drawing.

Brian bit his lip.

“You don’t have to stay.”

Justin didn’t look up. “I know.”

After a beat, Brian added: “Mikey is pathetic. ”

“You’re telling me.” The strokes on the paper were becoming a little harder, deeper, but still Justin wouldn’t lift his head. “Still, he’s your best friend and not telling him about...this...was a pretty shitty thing to do.” His voice was vibrating with controlled emotion. It was deeper, too.

“My ball, you mean?”

The drawing stopped. “Yes, Brian, your ball. Your cancer.”

Justin put his pad aside and stood up in one move, his fury barely contained as he stalked off to the kitchen area. “How do you think he felt when he came to New York, crazy with worry because he hadn’t heard from you in days and found you in that state? All alone?”

Brian tried to sit up, but his stomach lurched and his eyes begged him for a softer light than the artificial one Justin had just switched on.

The evening darkness was slowly setting in.

“And now he’s bullying everyone into playing nurse,” Brian insisted.

Justin banged something onto the counter. Brian imagined it was a glass, but didn’t want to turn around to check. Surely enough a second later he heard some water being poured out of a bottle.

“He’s not bullying anyone. Believe it or not, we care.”

Brian scoffed at this. “Come on, Justin. I’m still _the sellout fag who helped homophobic Stockwell win the election_ , if I remember the ‘Pink Pittsburgh’ quotation correctly.”

He knew it was word perfect.

Justin walked back to where Brian was lying, pushing the glass at him as if he was going to shove it down his throat and spilling some of the water. Brian took it gratefully, realizing at once that he was very thirsty.

“Yes, you’re still an asshole. And we still do care.”

Brian drank up his water.

***

A new buzz announced another text message. After glancing at it, Justin said: “Sorry, I need to answer this.” He moved back to the kitchen area and sent a short reply. Then he came back.

He walked around the couch, looking in Brian’s direction a couple of times.

Brian knew about Dr. Sean, if only in general terms, because he’d never let Michael elaborate beyond the fact that he was someone Justin was “maybe seeing, but casually, not even sure they’re fucking. I mean, yes they are, but not often, I don’t think. And it’s not as if he’s introduced him to anyone. He’s just been hanging around at the gym. Uhm, yes, he’s a doctor...”

“A _doctor_ doctor or a chiropractor?” Brian had interrupted him, with as much indifference as he could muster, and that had put an end to that conversation.

At Vic’s funeral, which had been the last time he’d visited Pittsburgh since, to quote Debbie, his Big-Move-To-New-Fucking-York- Without-So-Much-As-A-Goodbye-You-Asshole-Come-Here-And-Give-Me-A-Big-Hug, Brian had seen no trace of the good doctor with Justin, and had taken it to mean he’d not yet made the grade to boyfriend status.

Maybe everyone’s favorite blond had learned to be more cautious, at last, not to jump into the maelstrom of his romantic _feelings_ head first. Yet, Brian wasn’t quite so sure he felt vindicated by it.

Justin picked up his sketchbook again, but this time he sat on the couch, gently pushing Brian’s legs aside in order to claim some space for himself.

“The truth is, the backroom bores me,” he started, as if picking up from an ongoing conversation. “And I’m not saying this just because now, thanks to your Mayor Stockwell, it’s been closed for months. There are still plenty of places in Pittsburgh to fuck in public, for the discerning queer.”

Indeed.

Brian remembered seeing him in some of such places, immediately post-Ian: the meat trucks, the after-hour lock-ins, the private parties in impromptu sheds by the Allegheny. In those nocturnal spaces, Justin had been bathed in the same blue light that would visit Brian in recent dreams, blond hair surrounding a face whose glow made his stare all the more piercing, more questioning. They would look at each other across improvised backrooms for the entire duration of their casual hook-ups, Justin’s gaze never wavering, challenging him to stay, stay, stay with him until Brian had to break it off or risk coming with Justin’s name tumbling out of his mouth.

All of a sudden, though, those long winter nights of fucking once removed had come to a halt.

At first, Brian had thought that Justin had simply gone to other places and other parties, their distant encounters a casualty of mismatched schedules and fate. But then, he’d seen the defaced Stockwell posters, the agit-prop signature all over them, and realized that Justin had made yet another choice where Brian could not, would not follow him. This time, he hadn’t even been invited.

A couple of times he thought he’d caught sight of Justin breathing cold air through his nose and stomping his feet while sticking posters in this or that alley between the Market District and the Strip. He’d looked at him for a while, allowing himself to hope, against his better judgement, that in this, at least, Justin would win.

But he’d lost, naturally, and Brian had had no small part in it. He could imagine only too well the look of bewilderment, of puzzled disappointment on his face at the end of election night. At least he’d been among friends.

As for himself, he’d been busy packing.

Backrooms were not for him, Justin was saying now, and it wasn’t as if he was even trying to convince him. It was just how it was. “It’s that I hate them on principle, mind you. They can be fun. it’s just that after a while they’re all more of the same.”

Brian snorted. “Still not as boring as sucking the same cock every day for the rest of your life.”

“Maybe.” Justin shrugged. “I like variety too. But I prefer it in a climate-controlled environment and with the chance of a snack afterwards. Some conversation, even.”

“Let me guess, Dr. Sean’s house has central heating.”

“And it’s stocked up on milk and cereal, too.”

It felt good to still be able to laugh together.

Justin took a deep breath, then, in the steadiest tone he’d used all night, he said: “He’s not the love of my life, Brian. But no hearts will be broken when it ends.”

There was that at least.

***

And here they were, the semi-empty loft feeling suddenly inhabited, as it had never been in those strange months he’d been busy filling it with new, obscenely expensive furniture.

They sat in silence for a while and Brian thought it was time for him to get up, move his legs, go to the bathroom, be a little sick, anything to break this spell of quiet intimacy. But Justin spoke first.

“Do you want to see what I’m drawing?”

Brian nodded and Justin broke into a smile of such sincere delight, such unshielded joy that it made Brian’s heart clench. Had his power always been so _easy_ to yield? Was the sacrifice required of him really this small? When had he seen this before? A dance, he remembered. The acknowledgement of a birthday, the promise of a weekend together, the hope for a night in with only the two of them. A picnic.

Justin hesitated a bit, biting his lip and leafing back through a few pages of his sketchpad before returning to what he’d been working on in the last few hours. Brian suspected it might a portrait of himself: stretched on the couch with his eyes closed, perhaps; or sleeping in his bed as he’d been doing all afternoon.

But it was neither. What Justin showed him, instead, was a cityscape of high rises and countless water towers, seen from above. And in the distance bridges, stretching between hills zigzagged by impossibly steep stairs, like fire escapes, as if New York had been magically lifted and transplanted into Pittsburgh, or as if Pittsburgh had wrapped itself around the City.

The view from the top of the skyscrapers allowed Brian to see the streets far below in precise detail that would have been invisible to the naked eye, but that Justin’s perspective had made seem natural. Down there, in a winter twilight that could have been either the time that separated sunset from dusk or the one that announced the sunrise, Brian saw the outlines of men and women walking their separate ways, paths rarely crossing, hands buried in pockets and a suggestion of scarves around their necks as they entered or exited warmer, brighter places.

These were all places Brian had been to before, but never at once. Justin knew some of them, too, but others he couldn’t have seen.

“You talked in your sleep,” he explained, guessing Brian’s surprise. “Most of the things you said made no sense, just strings of words. You mentioned a white light and the smell of chloride. Then, I asked you about New York and you talked about rooftops, water towers, the 15th floor, where your apartment is,” and as he spoke Justin pointed at a corner window of the tallest building: the curtains - as luscious as the ones from the hotel room where he and Justin had fucked a lifetime ago - were drawn closed, but not entirely, and the shape of a familiar chair could be gleaned inside, perfectly delineated in a couple of strokes. “You said there’s a deli and a paint supply store next to it, at the end of your block.” And there they were.

It was a sketch of imagination, memory and guesswork, and of other things that Brian still found so hard to think about with clarity, let alone name them.

But cancer had given him some courage, too.

“Your hand must hurt,” he said, and shifted closer, inviting Justin to do the same.

“It’s not too bad.” Justin put down the sketch and extended his hand far enough for Brian to reach it.

It had been so long. Brian hoped he could still do it, that old soothing gesture that for a while he’d allowed himself to take for granted, then pretended not to miss.

***

He touched Justin gently at first, then with more strength. “You should come to New York, some time.”

Justin nodded, but looked down at their hands, and Brian knew he was warning himself not to hope, not to read too much into those words. Not again.

“I’ll go to New York,” he declared, as if he’d made that decision a long time ago and didn’t really need Brian’s invitation. He looked at Brian and repeated it. “After I finish school. Then I’ll visit your neighborhood and see how much of it I got right.”

Brian knew there and then that there was no turning back. That there was no way to undo Ethan or Stockwell or anything that had led them there. That his missing ball would always be fake and that Justin’s hand would always shake slightly after too many hours of drawing.

He would have to sell the loft soon and ship the couch, the remaining bowls, the mismatched spoons to New York, even if they didn’t quite fit the style of his new apartment. Take the old, worn-out jeans with him, even.

But first, he would drink all the fucking chicken soup Debbie saw fit to feed him and let Michael bully Justin into playing nurse while he cried on the Professor’s shoulder and played family with the little hustler. He’d allow them all to care for him and that was a big fucking concession he would later put down to the side effects of his treatment and his weakened state, and to the fact that Justin needed someone to rub his hand, since clearly Dr. Sean had no idea how to do it.

All this was running through his head when the bell rang in this place that would still be his home for a short while longer.

“It must be Michael. I should buzz him in,” Justin said, in that new deeper voice of his, not quite moving.

Brian nodded, but didn’t let go of Justin’s hand.

“Let him ring again.”


End file.
